


A Fear of Falling

by BrokenCuticles



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenCuticles/pseuds/BrokenCuticles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina, having heard of the prophecy early, recruits new ally Captain Hook, not to go after Cora, but instead, to The Land Without Magic to head off and kill 'The Savior' before she can come of age. Unfortunately, plans go awry and Killian Jones makes it to The Land Without Magic. As James Darling...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never, Ever Land

Every night, He dreamt of falling.

  


He was high up among the stars; sandwiched between the two abysses: The Sky and The Sea.

Wind forcefully batted at his face as he flew- faster than he could ever run- leaving birds, bats and all other manner of flying creatures behind.

  


It was always the same destination. Not the shimmering isle- twinkling with the gentle lights of its’ few inhabitants; the paradise that so many others sought out- no.

No, what he searched for was far more fantastic.

High, high up in the sky- so high no one but He could reach it…

Hidden among the glittering gems, spilt over the dark quilt haphazardly by the Greedy King of Pirates-

Or thousands of fairies who flew too high and got snared in invisible traps.

But he wasn’t a fairy, or a pirate, and he had a different opinion on the matter- one he could prove was right.

  


Higher and higher he flew, rising up into the midnight sky, until the lights below had vanished completely and he was swallowed by the great maw that was the night.

He prefered it that way.

For only in darkness could he see...

  


He grinned as he approached it- the closest star; a faint, glowing light, dimm in comparison to all of the rest- but far closer.

There was no indication that it was there- not to the physical touch. It was no more warm or cold than the surrounding area, and the closer he became, the dimmer the star grew- until it was merely a gentle glow, guiding his way up. He could _feel_ it though- at the tip of his nose and the back of his throat- a tickling, tingling sensation that only ever meant one thing:

_magic_

And he could think of nothing more magical than the sight that he witnessed as he finally became parallel with the star.

But it wasn’t a star at all.

Not really.

No,

it was a window.

  


There were others.

He had heard tell from the mermaids, who bore no ill will towards children (they were far too scrawny to feed their pod) and took a particular fancying to him when he would play music for them- teaching them to make sounds with grass. It was because of the music he learned of them at all- the windows.

 _The Holes_ The Mermaids would call them- having never seen more than a distant glance of a window he assumed. They had brought him an instrument of sorts- a flute, he thought it was called, or so one had claimed hearing- though another swore it was a whistle and a third swore it was a fife.

They had been so enchanted by his whistling and his playing of grass, that they had brought it for him, for him to play and teach them how to play.

He had asked him where they had found it and they told him about The Holes- deep under the sea, where only They could find them- leading to all types of worlds- where they would hunt.

He had to admit, he had always wondered where they hunted- as since Time stood still on their island, they seldom gained any other inhabitants and with the other children wary about the sea, they could never dream of feeding themselves on young boys alone.

  


Their stories had mystified him and the worlds they spoke of enchanted him.

  


He had always known there must have been other worlds out there- he found it hard to believe that their small island could be the only one- and he knew that the other boys had to come from _somewhere_. Even _he_ had come from somewhere- though he had but a shadow of a memory of that time- if he strained long enough and recalled that he had to have come from _somewhere_.

  


So the thought occurred to him to seek them out.

  


However, being incapable of swimming such depths as the mermaids, he was left to only one other option:

He would fly.

  


He stared for a moment- peering into the window like an uninvited guest.

The source of the glow was obvious- not far below- a great, bright, illuminated clock- larger than he had ever seen before. He only knew it was a clock because they washed up on shore every once in awhile- small round things- most broken- lost like everything else. And it was because of the clock that he had even found the window in the first place- when it decided to, rather unceremoniously, alert him of its’ presence with a nice loud _BONG_ as he flew by- nearly making him summersault in his surprise. It had been alarming at first- and he was unashamed to admit that the first time he had entered the window, it had been with sword in hand- an unimpressive thing, rusted and worn by seafoam, but a sword nonetheless- which was more than any of the other boys could brag of.

  


He had learned otherwise, soon enough.

Had been _taught_ otherwise.

  


He simply stared at it all for a moment- hovering on the precipice between worlds, simply staring down at the magnificent splendor.

A sight like no other he had ever seen looked back up at him- a sea of buildings, all glowing with stars of their own- brilliant, yellow-white lights coming from every window and street; making the small island’s twinkle pale in comparison. It had awed him every time- this beautiful spectacle- just a second too long.

It happened, as it always had, without warning.

  


The invisible force that had been holding him up before would abruptly give out- a pair of scissors snipping away at his wires, and he would fall.

  


The wind once more whipped at his face as he fell- faster than he could possibly control- down, down, nose diving into the black sea, watching as it grew closer and closer- a hungry maw opened wide, ready to swallow him up.

He tried to move, tried to shift, but he could barely tell which way was up and which was down; arms scrambling around him, reaching out desperately for a grip he knew he wouldn’t find.

The sound of his descent overlapped his own screams, the air howling at him, angrily berating him for his foolish actions. And he could hear a voice- hovering at the back of his mind- beyond the wind and beyond his own screams- a chiding, knowing voice.

 _What happens then? The second you become too old? The second you’re no longer one of us-but one of_ them _. What will happen to you then?_

 _**You’ll fall** _ _._

  


His body collided, full force with the water; crashing into it like a rock through glass- feeling as though everything around him and in him had shattered.

The salty, icy liquid rapidly flooded his mouth.

He attempted to move, helplessly, but his bones ached from the collision, dead weight against his struggling body. His mind was swiftly shutting down, his vision filling with spots.

His head became muddled and foggy- his eyes drooping- as he tried to remember what he was so scared of in the first place…

As his eyes fell closed, water filling his lungs, he could have sworn he caught sight of something shiny.

And then...

_BOOM!!_

The sea was illuminated by a brilliant, white flash of light.

  


* * *

  


_BOOM!!!_

James sprung awake, soaking wet; coughing and sputtering.

He blinked rapidly, pushing aside a mop of sodden dark bangs in vain attempt to get his bearings. Another loud _BOOM!!_ and the surrounding area was abruptly, and very momentarily illuminated by a clap of lightning. James groaned as everything came crawling back to him, accompanied by the distinct beginnings of a hangover. He cursed under his breath, once again wiping his hair out of his eyes and grimmly thinking, as he stared up at the pouring heavens, that he supposed he could use a bath…

  


He almost chuckled at his dark humor as he shakily stood, pushing himself up one-handed and holding his arms out experimentally in case he needed to steady himself. Fortunately for him, the rather vicious sheets of rain seemed to have managed to sober him up rather forcefully and he found his equilibrium in perfect working order.

  


James shoved his way past the toppled stack of boxes that had been his poor excuse for a shelter when he had collapsed behind them hours prior. No doubt the strong winds had knocked them over, and he managed a shred of optimism in the observation that they hadn’t fallen on top of him while he slept (or was it pessimism? He wasn’t completely sure how to feel about the near miss)...

His back ached horribly, sharp pains prodding at him as he straightened up.

He vowed never to get that drunk again.

His self deprecating snort of disbelief at the very notion, was drowned out completely by the storm.

He amended: next time he got that drunk, he would try to avoid passing out in alleyways and perhaps, instead, aim for a nice, quiet park.

  


James continued to shuffle forward; stumbling through the deluge, arm raised to in forehead in a vain attempt to keep the water out of his eyes. He cursed again- profusely, and with many colorful variations from his usual repertoire- venting his frustration as his eyes scanned the perimeter for _some_ sort of shelter- at this point, anything more stable than a tower of miscellaneous boxes and a dumpster, would do. Unfortunately, as usual, his timing was absolutely appalling- choosing to wake at an hour when it was far too late for even bars to be open, but much too early for any of the shops (not that they’d likely accept admittance from the likes of him).

  


Helplessly, James pulled his coat tighter around him, grateful to have _that_ at least- even if it had already been soaked through and trundled onward- fighting the frigid early morning cold as the rain, thankfully, let up just enough to no longer impair his vision.

Which is when he saw it: glowing brightly, a yellow beacon in a sea of gray.

He found himself staggering forward, his pace quickening in desperation and urgency- eyes never leaving his target for fear it would vanish if he so much as blinked.

Only to freeze, moments later, as he witnessed another figure hurrying towards the same destination- black umbrella held close to their head as they jogged.

James found a rather predatorial growl escaping him at the sight, once more charging forward with even more determination- at this point, he didn’t care if he had to shove the other man out of the way, the image of him huddled up in a nice, dry, cushioned, enclosed space already too far imbedded in his mind to give up now.

  


It wasn’t until he was a few yards away that he noticed that the person in question had paused at the car door for an excessive amount of time and seemed to be struggling as he awkwardly balanced his umbrella in the crook of his arm while seeming to have difficulty with the door. It wasn’t until he heard a hissed swear and the clanking and sliding of metal that he realized what was happening.

_Of all the fucking cars…_

James sighed inaudibly, straightening up and approaching the poor sod struggling to break into the bright yellow VW Bug with what looked like a screwdriver. He almost felt bad for the bastard- the screwdriver kept slipping due to the slick exterior of the door and if it weren’t for the fact that he wasn’t too keen on sharing the small confined space with him until the storm let up, he might have given him a hand.

As it were:

“Bugger off, this one’s taken.” James proclaimed, threateningly, making his presence known.

The man- for now, this close up, it was definitely apparent that he _was_ a man- roughly around James’ age if he were to guess and a bit shorter in stature- whipped around, brandishing what was indeed some sort of flat-headed screwdriver, evidently prepared to fight.

“Look, Man-” The carjacker began, pausing mid sentence as he met James’ eyes. Apparently, he saw something he didn’t like, because abruptly his own eyes filled with insurmountable terror, mouth gaping open as he backed up against the car.

“What the _fuck?!_ ” He muttered, hitting the car and quickly scrambling to the side of it, eyes never leaving James’. “Shit! How the _hell_ did you _find me_?!” He demanded, pointing his screwdriver directly at James while continuing to back away, hand very clearly shaking; looking, for all intents and purposes, as though he were seeing a ghost. “NO!!” He yelled, “NO!!! GET THE _FUCK_ AWAY FROM ME!!! I’M NOT GOING BACK THERE!!!” He shouted, angrily, flinging the screwdriver at James (who was hit by the butt of it in the shoulder) and using the distraction as an escape- fleeing as though expecting hot pursuit.

  


James watched the man’s frantic departure in slightly startled bemusement, before shrugging off the bizarre occurrence and bending down to pick up the screwdriver, examining it thoughtfully. He had been incorrect in his previous assessment of the device. While it did hold the appearance of a common appliance screwdriver- the flattened end extended further than an average one would- and was actually a favorable tool for such activities- if a bit crass.

  


He turned his attention back on the car, wiping off the ‘screwdriver’ as best as he could, before expertly inserting it. In a combination of small, well practiced movements, the door popped open enthusiastically- with minimal damage to the already battered exterior. He then bent down once more to grab the umbrella (which had fallen from its’ precarious location when the potential carjacker fled) and closed it.

He sighed in relief of no longer being in direct line of fire of the downpour and let his head momentarily plop back on the driver’s seat with a loud squelching sound- that reminded him of his current state.

With a large amount of struggle, due to the state of his overcoat and the small, limited interior of the car, James managed to remove the coat- tossing it, and the umbrella, on the passenger's seat.

  


He then settled back down, enjoying, for a moment, the muffled sound of the rain as it hit the roof of the bug and pattered away harmlessly on the windshield. He would have been content, parked in that obscure alleyway; completely stationary, but also completely safe and shielded from the rain outside, if only for the night- however, he couldn’t help but wonder…

His eyes trailed over the interior of the car with a peaked interest; observing every nook and cranny, every groove, dent and flaw- before finally landing on the visor directly above him.

  


He paused, glancing at it doubtfully- surely, it couldn’t be _that_ easy…

He reached up and lowered the visor; a set of keys landing directly in his lap.

Not one to question his luck, James scooped up the keys and inserted them experimentally into the ignition. The bug roared noisily into life- but to life nonetheless. Not only that, but with half a tank of gas and working headlights and windshield wipers.

James finally permitted himself a small chuckle as he shifted into gear and started the car, which spurred forward with no more than a small hiccup before driving as smoothly as a car in its’ condition could be expected to function.

  


He guided the car through the labyrinth of alleyways; working partly off of a vague memory of the location and more majorly off of sheer luck- managing, somehow, to navigate out onto the main roads; still, for the most part, completely void of life in the early hours of the morning. He let out another contented sigh at the very fact that he was _moving_ \- for the first time in who knew how long.

And sure, the car puttered along in an almost cartoonish fashion, and yes, the wiper blades made a loud whining noise as they scraped across the window- but he was _moving_.

  


His eyes caught sight of a sign directing towards the freeway and he paused, if only for a moment.

The windshield wipers continued to moan and squeak, the storm still loudly clanging against the roof of his car and now that he was safely in the car, he became aware of the rather unpleasant chill that permeated the vehicle.

  


He made up his mind right then and there, signaling for no one and turning off onto the on-ramp.

  
He was fucking _done_ with Seattle. 


	2. Candles, Stars and Wishes you make on them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a warning- references to pretty brutal backstory- thus the M rating (or part of the reason).

Emma’s birthdays had never exactly been memorable. 

Well, apparently her first one had been a real kicker- it didn’t get much more memorable than being abandoned on the side of the road, so fresh from the birth canal that your belly button hadn’t even fallen off. Since then, the rest had followed in a complete blur- easily forgettable in houses that turned over children like cigarette butts and could hardly afford to bother memorizing names, let alone birthdates. Hell, she wouldn’t even _know_ what one _was_ if it weren’t for the annual parties staged in Kindergarten, then First grade, then Second. She recalled searching for a copy of the article at the library once- desperate for any scraps of information she could get about her origins. She had found it and even managed to track down a copy, taking to carrying it around with her from place to place, and sometimes, during moments of weakness, opening it up to read over the article again and again- searching for any hidden meaning- and clues- making sure she hadn’t skipped over some sort of vital information, like a card that had been left with the bundle- even a _last name_ would do. But always to no avail. 

  
  


So she became Smith, and Tobberman, Samuelson, Gregson, Walsh and so many others; toting around her blanket and newspaper clipping wherever she was sent. They became her identity- and her birthday the most significant of all. It was the day she came into existence- and later in life, a countdown to when she would be free. In the early days, she had hope- it wasn’t until the first dozen times that she was passed up for some other girl or boy that she finally wised up. 

Prospective parents didn’t want the lanky twig that was all angles, skin knees, bruises. They didn’t want the girl with the weak, straw colored hair and the strong, prominent cleft chin. No matter how charitable the adopters think they are- how pure hearted for choosing adoption- in the end, if they choose a kid over a baby- then it’d be the little girl with strawberry blonde hair, round cheeks and a button nose- even if she has a penchant for locking the younger kids up in the cupboard under the sink and popping the heads off of your stuffed animals and leaving them in your bed. They’ll choose her because in life, the best judgment of character is always personal appearance. She supposed, later, that she grew into her looks- but she still never managed to be the type to floor a guy (unless it was her fist that got him there). 

  
  


So she built walls to make the pain hurt less, and she celebrated her birthday every year, because if she didn’t no one else would- and while other kids made wishes for toys or money when they blew out the candles at school, Emma made wishes on stars for an escape. She found it shortly before her sixteenth birthday.

  
  


Once of the boys in the Walsh house- Tommy- agreed to teach her how to drive, in exchange for... certain favors. She complied, not exactly a stranger to such activities- you couldn't be, if you were a young, blonde, teenaged foster girl, expecting to survive. You either gave in- and got to at least wear a condom- or you didn't have a choice, and it hurt a hellava lot worse.

Because of such things, it had become a very detached action for her. It became the only currency she had, and she gave it willingly for information she found more valuable. So she learned how to pick locks from John, break into cars from Steve and how to drive stick from Tommy.

  
  


All of this, so that on Emma's sixteenth birthday, she could give herself the greatest present of all:

Freedom.

  
  


Technically, she didn't make her break for it until a few weeks after her sixteenth birthday, when she had finally gotten her brand new driver's license in the mail. She had stared at it, proudly, for hours- every minute bit of information emblazoned on that small piece of plastic- topped off with the most enthusiastic picture the DMV had likely _ever_ seen, the name “ **EMMA SWAN** ” standing out in bold black letters.

Emma Swan.

That was her.

And for the very first time in her entire life, Emma felt like she could say for certain, that she was _somebody_.

  
  


The next day, she made her arrangements.

At school, she stole a few items from 'Auto Shop'- which she had only been taking in the first place in preparation of owning a car- she didn't want to wind up stranded in the middle of nowhere- or worse, be forced to take it in somewhere and have whoever might be looking for the car find it, _and her_.

Next, she stole a combination of rations from the school cafeteria and the Walsh home, and that night, when everyone else had already gone to bed, she snuck into Tommy's room and took the money he had bullied out of the other children and hoarded in his sock drawer, along with a few large bills from the Walsh Foster Parents, who also had a sizable stash of their own, earned from less-than-savory means, in an old, empty can of peanut brittle.

  
  


She left that night, catching the last bus into downtown, navigating with ease through her practiced route. She had made it just as the bars were closing and the patrons were stumbling out, blearily. She set her sights on the man with the most perilously unsteady equilibrium and approached him; pulling her hair out of her ponytail and shaking it out a bit, plastering a smile onto her face and taking his arm.

“Hey big guy, where ya headed? Mind if I join you?” Emma inquired in the breathiest voice she could muster, channeling a little Monroe. The man in question- dumpy, in his early fifties, balding, let his eyes roll over to her in complete and utter disbelief, a dopey smile sliding across his features.

He muttered something unintelligible in reply, swaying slightly. Emma continued to distract him, whispering sweet nothings while fishing through his pockets for his wallet and keys. He, unfortunately, had completely misinterpreted her motives (though who could blame him?) and it wasn't long before she felt a hand on her ass in return. She sighed, knowing it was her own fault, but didn't pull his hand away- too intent on her task.

  
  


She found both with little effort, pulling them out casually and steering the man away from the line of cars parked outside the bar, and towards the street- where a sea of yellow sharks patiently waited, anticipating their late-night prey.

Emma guided him into the first one, all simpering smiles and giggles, opening the door for him and leaning in as he scooted across to make room for her; then opened the wallet, scoping out the I.D.

“252 Orchard St.” she instructed, before tossing the wallet into the man's lap.

“Yes Ma'am.” The Cabbie replied with a chuckle, before she backed out and closed the door with a slam, turning away with the man's keys balled up in her hand. 

  
  


Finding the car in question was relatively simple- by the time she had returned most of them were gone already and the key indicated by a worn down insignia that the car was a Chevy. There were two- and Emma took a wild guess that the one she was looking for was the more beaten down of the two. 

She hated the fact that her heart seemed to not get the message that this was a covert operation- pounding away in her chest like a call to war- so loud she was _sure_ someone else would hear her. However, most were far too out of it to even care- though a tall, lanky white guy in a bright orange sweater vest _did_ feel the need to inform her that she had a “bootilicious badonkadonk.” Something she’d rather _not_ hear in any circumstances, but _especially_ not from someone who looked like he could be a Math teacher. 

  
  


Her hands, despite her desperate attempts at steady them, shook wildly enough that she was terrified she would drop the keys as she inserted them into the door. Her mind raced with all that could possibly go wrong and she found herself rather vividly envisioning being surrounded by police cars the minute she successfully opened the door and hoisted herself up into the slightly elevated truck. However, to her surprise, life went on exactly how it had _before_ she had gotten into the vehicle. And it continued to proceed as she stuck the key into the ignition and spurred the old, rusty truck into life. The raspy sound that came from the engine made her jump, still on edge at what she was doing. Running away, she had done- at least a dozen times- it was nothing new, and the thrill had dulled. Each time, they had found her again, without fail. 

  
  


_This_ time though, she had a _car_.

  
  


She started up the car, grasping the clutch with a taut, white-knuckled hand- thankful that the Welsh’s had a manual as she shifted it into gear with ease. She pressed her foot down on the gas pedal with slight trepidation- this was it- car theft was certainly a step up from the five-fingered discount she occasional utilized in convenience stores. No going back now. 

Her foot pressed down with a little more confidence, the car easing out and onto the main streets with surprising smoothness for the shape it was in. Her mind raced as she recalled everything Tommy had taught her (and more importantly, what she had learned about driving laws from a pamphlet that Tommy _hadn’t_ taught her). She hadn’t felt so nervous since her driving test- paranoid to an extreme about keeping under the speed limit, signaling without fail and doing her damned best to not seem as conspicuous as she felt. 

  
  


As she continued, accelerating slightly at the lack of cars and high strung nerves, her eyes caught the large green sign directing her towards the on ramp South. 

_Huh...South…_ she mused. She made sure to flick on her turn signal and pulled onto the on ramp, her head full of images of hot sandy beaches, bright blue oceans and fruity drinks. _South sounds nice_ …


	3. "A Bird May love a Fish Señor, But Where Would They Live?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know, sorry- I promise the chapters will be getting longer once the two are actually in the same location- so, really only a chapter away.

_What happens then? The second you become too old? The second you’re no longer one of us-but one of_ them _. What will happen to you then?_

 _**You’ll fall** _ _._

  


James screamed as he once more plummeted down, down, away from his star, away from the giant clock, away from _Her_ \- and towards the dark sea below.

Again, his body broke through the surface of the water like a stone through glass; the ocean shattering around him, only to suck him under. The air was completely knocked out of him by the force of impact- water flooding his open mouth and seeping into his lungs. His limbs throbbed and ached, limp and lifeless, carried away by the churning of the sea. He tried to gather his wits about him- tried to force his eyes open and his mouth closed- tried to get his arms to move, his legs to kick- but all was for naught.

The cold, harsh waters pierced at his skin, numbing it and his vision swam, disoriented by the filtered light of the moon and the absence of oxygen.

  


And he realized, with great fear, that he was going to die.

  
  


It was said, by Chief Powhatan,of The Tiger Lily Pass, that when a body dies, the Spirits would send their soul to The Spirit World, where they would rejoin the souls of their ancestors and, apparently, if the ceremonies James had sat through were anything to go by, they would return to put on light shows whenever they were called upon for rain- or sun- or one of the Tribesmen was celebrating a particularly successful hunt. In James’ opinion, it sounded rather monotonous in his option.

  


The Fairies believed that the soul of a body- or an entire body when pixies were involved- turned into fairy dust, which gave magic to the rest of the fairies and ensured their continued survival from the dusts’ rejuvenating abilities. James wasn’t much more fond of that idea- because that would have meant that all of the dust he had been using to visit London had been the souls of dead fairies and Lost Boys, coating him and helping him fly. And that he’d spend _his_ afterlife rubbing up against some _new_ sod that thought it was his due to be able to fly as well.

  


The Mermaids didn’t believe in souls. As he had been informed, they had witnessed many-a-death at their hands, of many different men, and not once had they ever witnessed anything ever come out of them apart from blood. As far as they were concerned, when humans died, they were simply ‘out’- like a fire snuffed out by water. It was the least romantic of options, but James felt that if anyone would know a thing about death, it would be them. He feared, on occasion, they were right.

  


The Pirates (or so he had heard) believed that when they finally met their ends, their souls would not rise up to a spirit world, but be dragged down- deep to the ocean’s floor- where it was said Davy Jones would take them, and force them into eternal servitude- the higher their rank in life, the lower their rank in death. And of all the lores, all the claims to the afterlife- James felt, as his vision began to blur- the pools of moonlight shifting and shimmering, contorting into what he thought, looked quite a bit like scales- he felt the strangest sensation of cold, strong hands- not just one pair, but many- wrapping around his numb limbs in a tight grip, and pull him further and further down. To where? He did not know- but his last thoughts, as he experienced the sensation of many hands tugging him down into the depths, was to wonder: having never been a pirate, and therefore lower than the lowest of the low…

  


Would that make him Captain?

  


His eyelids drooped, water topped off his lungs, and his entire body grew numb.

He no longer felt pain...

No longer felt cold…

But he could have sworn…

Right before the lights went out completely…

That he felt _something_ …

A gentle pressure…

Against his lips…

  
  


And then James Darling died.

  


* * *

**Portland, Oregon**

  
  


James Darling was awoken by the sound of rumbling.

A month ago, perhaps, the sound would have alarmed him, however, having spent so much time in a single confined space, he was as certain of that sound as he was his own name.

Which begged to question, _why_ his car was _making_ that sound when his hand was _nowhere_ near the ignition and the keys were in his pockets?

And for that matter, _He_ was in the back seat!

  


James opened his eyes, tiredly, befalling the familiar sight of his bug’s arched roof. For a moment, he simply stared at it. It had become a routine of sorts- with very little else to stare at, settled down in the back of the car, legs awkwardly bunched up, his coat either being used as a pillow or a blanket, depending on how cold it was, waiting for sleep and simply _staring_. He each groove and discoloration memorized by heart now- pictures that he found in the interior scratches and chipped paint- his own personal constellations. He had become accustom to every crunch and squeak of the seats as he shifted positions- and that stale smell that seemed to emanate from the used seats that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to shake.

Therefore, it only took him a moment to register, in his waking, drowsy, slightly hungover state; that something was not quite right that morning. The smells of wet leather, alcohol and ancient car seats was accompanied by a new, unfamiliar scent. And despite his lack of movement, there was a gentle vibration from the car and the creaks of someone shifting around in the driver’s seat.

He wondered, offhandedly, if perhaps this was just an incredibly vivid morning hallucination, caused by his present stupor.

Until he felt the car begin to move.

James’ sigh of frustration was blocked out by the much louder engine and he found his eyes once more rolling to the ceiling.

_I need to get a bloody carjack._

  


He groaned, sitting up slowly, cautiously, mentally calculating his plan of attack and just where exactly he could strike the carjacker without risking crashing his car.

That was, until he properly sat up.

And caught sight of the blonde currently at the wheel.

  


James grinned, eyebrow raising in spite of himself, eyes moving to the rear view mirror where she hadn’t caught sight of him yet, but he _certainly_ had caught sight of her.

 _Or maybe not…_ He amended, leaning over the car seats and dangling his keys out in front of her.

“You know, love, if you wanted to drive, you could have just asked for the keys.”

  


He had expected a scream.

  


He _hadn’t_ expected her to speed up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, for those of you clever, clever people out there- I left a small homage to a certain Disney Indian Chief as The Indian Chief that resides in Neverland.


	4. Lost Girl

Emma had always considered herself a wallflower.

It wasn’t that she was particularly ugly- but she was smart enough by now to know that she wasn’t ever going to turn heads either. There was just something about her- something she couldn’t place- that caused people to glance past her without a second thought- sweeping over her with the rest of the scenery, as though her very existence could be so easily overlooked.

Needless to say, it wasn’t the best attribute for a kid wanting to get adopted.

  


As it turned out though, it was an excellent skill for a runaway.

  


It had been a month since Emma had made her escape, leaving her Foster family and the entire Foster Home system in Montana and found herself, not down South, as she had hoped, but a little closer to home in Portland, Oregon. Not that she was complaining. As far as cities go, it definitely hit her top ten out of the previous places she had been forced to endure; and boasted of a buzzing community of culture and arts, encased in a vibrant metropolis.

Which would have all been really, _really_ great if she hadn’t shown up there with thirteen dollars and some odd change in her pocket in a car that had certainly seen better days.

She ditched her first the minute she was out of Montana, and found _that_ particular prize-winner left out on the side of the road with a “For Sale” sign in its’ dusty window- bleached from the sun. But, it _had_ managed to get her the rest of the way across Idaho, which was definitely something, and she wound up selling it as parts at a scrapyard for $85 so she was relatively pleased with herself.

  


The next few weeks had been spent honing her skills. She took to pickpocketing with relative ease (though stealing tips off of restaurant table tops was easier). Outdoor diners and fruit stands became her best friends. As did inattentive busdrivers with more than one door to keep an eye on and people who couldn’t afford a dryer and liked to hang their laundry on the fire escapes.

Suddenly, being a wallflower didn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore.

  


The excitement of her initial escape faded away as the days went on and no news of her disappearance reached her. She didn’t know what she expected- her face plastered on every television, “ **EMMA SWAN MISSING** ” the header of every newspaper? No. Well...maybe a little.

It wasn’t as though she had left as a cry for attention- she genuinely _wanted_ to leave. But still...some attention wouldn’t have hurt…

As time passed, however, the realization started to seep in, and she started to wonder: was anyone even looking for her? Did anyone care? Did anyone even _notice_ she was gone? Hell, who was she kidding? Her Foster Parents were probably keeping their mouths shut so that they could keep receiving checks.

  


Two weeks in and running away started to lose its’ charm.

The city she had initially viewed as a beautiful, shining gem, full of excitement and opportunity, started to turn up flaws the longer she scrutinized it.

  


She slept in her car most of the time- until she sold it- then tried her hand at a homeless shelter.

Three nights there and she vowed never to go back.

  


She learned to become a light sleeper.

She learned that messy hair and baggy clothes were more likely to get attention from cops, but less likely to get attention from muggers.

She learned that butchers tended to keep spare knives in cups on their counters where anyone could pick them up and that sometimes it was better to sleep armed.

  
  


So in a month’s time, Emma was pretty sure it was safe to say, that it couldn’t hurt to find another ride and move on.

  
  


Emma paused at the curb, out of habit tightening her ponytail and straightening her false lenses- nothing more than glass, but she found the combination not only helped her blend in with the rather large up and coming hipster populace, but added a few years- enough to look legal anyway. Her eyes scanned the road as she crossed the backstreet- void of life at two in the afternoon- too late for workers out on lunch and too soon for kids to be out of school; and ideal for scoping out cars that likely wouldn’t be moving until after five.

  


The key was spotting the right car. Timing was only one of the many factors. Condition was also a primary concern- too nice, and it probably had an alarm system and an owner far more likely to report it right away. Too old and who knew what kind of problems it would have- and if it would even have enough gas in it to get you out of town.

Location was another key. If it was too far out, then all likelihood it was abandoned- and usually cars were abandoned for a reason. She had gotten lucky with Idaho, but learned later in Spokane that that wasn’t always the case. But, of course, if it was too populated of an area, it was much more likely that either someone would catch you- or a security camera might.

  


Emma felt that she’d gotten a good feel for it though, and turned down into a grouping of alleyways that she had become familiar with.

She had had her eyes on this one since she’d caught sight of it two days prior.

A bright yellow bug- one of the cute old ones- parked out by an old construction site- with no sign of an owner in all of that time.

  


Emma approached it with confidence, pulling out her set of dummy keys and fiddling with them as she hurried towards it, eyes darting around behind her glasses, wary of onlookers.

  


The coast clear, she quickly stuffed the keys back into her jacket pocket and reached out for her real tool of choice, sliding it in the open groove between the frame and glass, and pulling on the handle.

To her delight, it opened with ease and she hurriedly pulled her handy little device (acquired from a man named Kevin, who worked as a mechanic and had lent it to her, along with providing her with room and board for a few days, in an agreement similar to the one she had once made Tommy) out of the car and dove into the driver’s seat- propping her purse (acquired from the bus depot lost and found) onto the passenger's side and quickly removing her next two tools: a screwdriver, and a nice round rock that she had had since Boise. She made quick work of starting the car- jamming the screwdriver into the ignition and taking a few strategic whacks at it with Boise- and bit back an exclamation of delight as the car rumbled into life.

  


She quickly shoved all of her supplies back into her back, zipping it up and shifting into first; trying to calm her features as she guided the car onto the road and out of the alleyway.

  


She liked to think, that if it hadn’t been for the man who had cornered her in an alley the night prior; grabbing her arm and spouting out some crazy bullshit about ‘destiny’ and ‘curses’ (which, admittedly, had been a factor in her abrupt desire for a change in scenery) she might have handled the following events with slightly more composure.

  


But instead, when the man in dark clothing, with dark hair and a fair amount of stubble (therefore resembling another partially obscured countenance that could have been described as having similar attributes) popped up from the back seats, leaning over them with a charming smile, dangling a set of keys and saying in a calm, casual and slightly flirtatious tone:

“You know, Love, if you wanted to drive, you could have just asked for the keys.”

Emma Swan didn’t act aloof and come back with a biting, yet unphased retort.

No, instead, she screamed:

“Jesus- _Fuck_!”

And slammed, not on the breaks, but the gas- spurring the car forward as though increasing her speed would somehow put as much distance between herself and the man in the backseat as possible.

  


“ _Easy_ there, Lass!” The stranger exclaimed, leaning further over the seats to grab the wheel, violently jerking it to the left to avoid a lamppost. “I’d rather _not_ die in Portland!”

“Who the hell are you!?” Emma demanded in response, voice coming out more shrill and less assertive than she was aiming for.

“Says the car thief.” The man tactfully pointed out, sounding more amused than agitated at the situation; and, a definite Irish lilt Emma realized- so probably not the same guy. Funny how that _didn’t_ calm her nerves.

“Just answer the question, damnit!”

“I will, soon as you _slow down_!” The stranger shot back, still leaning over farther than necessary, clearly prepared to take over steering again if need be.

Emma emitted a sound somewhere between a growl and a shout of frustration and protest, but she obliged, slowing down to what she assumed was probably the appropriate speed for the area...probably.

There was a tense pause as Emma continued to drive, before she glanced back over to the stranger, who seemed to have decided that if he was already this far out he might as well go the whole way, and slid into the passenger's seat with an annoying amount of grace.

“Well?” Emma asked after a moment, impatiently.

“James.” The man replied, shortly.

There was another pause.

“And is there a _last_ name to go with that, buddy?”

“You got a first one, love?” the man calling himself James replied, tilting his head to the side to survey her with a crooked grin- or so Emma could make out from her peripheral vision, eyes facing forward. She snorted at his words.

“Yeah, like I’d tell _you_.”

“Emma.” He stated, suddenly and Emma froze.

“What? How do you know that?” She demanded.

“Just a wild guess.” He replied, sounding distracted, “Tell me, _why_ do the contents of your purse seem to consist solely of a blanket and a rather large stone?”

Emma’s head shot to her right to see James had her purse propped open and her baby blanket spilling out of it- the name ‘EMMA’ very clearly embroidered on it in bright purple.

“Give me _that!_ ” Emma replied, yanking it out of his grasp and tossing it into the back seat, her attention reverting back to driving.

“So, Emma it is!” James replied in confirmation, unfazed by her actions and positively beaming, “Lovely name- I assume your surname is equally charming?”

“I asked you first.” Emma pointed out, irritably.

“That you did, lass.” James agreed.

Emma waited, however after a few more minutes of silence, it became apparent that he had no intention of telling her. _First_ , anyway. Emma sighed exasperatedly.

“Swan.”

“Darling.”

“What?”

“Darling.” James enunciated, as though he had simply misheard her, “James Darling.”

“Darling? Seriously?” Emma asked, turning her head to look at him once more.

  


It was only then that she realized she hadn’t actually taken time to really _look at him_.

 _Scruffy_ would be the first word she would use (or so she told herself while shoving the adjective _rugged_ to the back of her mind and smothered it).

He wore what seemed to be the second hand store’s best: plaid button up that had certainly seen better days, over what could have once been a black band shirt, faded to gray and a pair of tattered and frayed jeans with rather prominent holes in the knees. He had a mess of short dark hair that was currently mussed up- a clear giveaway that he had probably been sleeping (again, she shoved away any other more lurid connotations) and a heavy layer of stubble that couldn’t be classified as a beard yet, but had definitely been around long enough that ‘forgetting to shave’ would no longer be a plausible explanation.

Startlingly blue eyes scrutinized her with an equally fixated gaze- eyes darting over her much as hers’ were probably darting over him; though his look bore no malignant intent. It was merely curious (with undercurrents of something bordering on vulgar if the crooked grin, knowing glance and lip bite were anything to go by) in an ‘oh, looked what I found in my car’ sort of way- as opposed to any indication that he would turn her into the authorities on a later date.

  


“Yes, and a pleasure to meet you as well miss Swan.” James replied sarcastically, “Now if you would be so kind as to- _eyes on the road, lass!_ ” he interrupted himself, abruptly; effectively knocking Emma out of her daze and causing her to turn her head sharply back towards the road- just in time to see herself fly past a stop sign.

Not a moment later, the sound of a siren drew their attention.

“ _Shit!_ ” Emma hissed, James beside her groaning and hitting his head against the back of the seat, muttering a few choice expletives under his breath.

  


Emma pulled over to the side of the road, staring at her rear-view mirror, absolutely petrified. Since she had left Montana, she had stolen a total of five cars and not _once_ had she managed to get pulled over yet. Her mind raced as worst case scenarios began to flash before her eyes. She’d be _lucky_ if they sent her back to Montana- more likely she’d be sent to prison- or Juvenile Hall- which for some reason she thought sounded worse...

Meanwhile, James had taken charge; pulling the screwdriver out of the ignition and replacing it with the keys, just as the officer walked up to the car, quickly whispering under his breath as he did so:

“Try to look as though there _isn’t_ a body hidden in the trunk.”

“ _What!?”_ Emma yelped, eyes widening in horror.

“Joke, love- your panic might actually help us- think you could wrestle out a few tears?”

Emma opened her mouth to reply, but by that time the officer had reached the window.

  


“License and registration-”

“ _Hi-”_ Emma began with the sweetest smile she could muster, but was almost immediately interrupted.

“Hi there- sorry about that, officer-” James greeted in a spot-on American accent, leaning over Emma to give a charming, yet somehow simultaneously sheepish smile “It’s actually _my_ car- she’s not used to driving stick, but I haven’t managed on my own since the accident…” And to Emma’s absolute horror, James held out his left arm and pulled down the sleeve that had previously been obstructing, what Emma only then identified as a stump where a hand should be- skin neatly folded over the wrist, leaving the area bare and smooth...

“Needed her to drive me to the pharmacist to pick up my pain meds- but as I’ve said, she’s not great with stick.”

  


The officer- previously of the unflappable variety- seemed even more so taken off guard than Emma (and thankfully too distracted by this turn of events to notice Emma’s expression) and was momentarily caught speechless. He seemed to be trying incredibly hard not to stare at the stump that James still held up on display, inches away from the officer’s face- innocent, apologetic and slightly embarrassed smile never faltering. After an uncomfortable moment, where everyone seemed to be trying to do their best to ignore the elephant in the room- especially Emma, since his sleeve was very slightly touching her nose- the police officer shifted and cleared his throat; seeming to come to a decision.

“Alright, I’ll let you two off with a warning- but make sure you have her practice in back lots before you two try something like this again.”

“Of course, officer.” James agreed, arm still outstretched. The officer nodded and turned his attention to Emma.

“You think you can manage getting back safely?”

“Uh- yes- yes sir.” Emma blurted out, nodding her head more rigorously than was deemed necessary, wishing James would move his arm already. The stump seemed to be doing its’ job though, because the officer shifted again, eyes darting back towards it before meeting their faces and giving a short nod.

“You two be safe.”

“We will, thank you!” Emma replied, her smile threatening to split her face in half.

The two watched silently as the officer turned and walked back to his car, and neither moved until he had driven past them and out of sight.

James was the first, finally moving away from Emma and leaning back in his seat with a sigh.

“Bless the American stigmatization of the handicapped- that was too bloody close.” He muttered, slipping back into his irish brogue with ease.

  


Emma’s heart was still racing, hands shaking noticeably as she clutched a little too tightly to the steering wheel, knuckles white. At that moment, hundreds of thoughts bombarded her head- and thousands of perfectly logical comments and inquiries that all would have been perfectly acceptable. However, at the time, one thought seemed to hold absolute precedence, and it came hurtling out of her mouth before she could  restrain it:

“YOU’RE _MISSING_ A  _HAND_?!?!”

  


James looked down at the offending lack of appendage in bemusement.

“Well would you look at that, it appears I am.”

“HOW _LONG_ HAVE YOU HAD _NO HAND?_!!!” Emma continued, “WERE YOU  _EVER_ GOING TO _TELL_ ME?!?!”

“Well, I was waiting for it to come up in conversation organically- so, there you have it- it came up.” He replied, holding up his stump like a peace offering.

“Could you just- _stop_!” Emma spat back, knocking his arm away, only to pause, “Wait- what do you mean _close_?” her eyes trailed once more over him, suspiciously, before it dawned on her.

“This isn’t your car.” She stated, shell shocked, “I stole a stolen car.”

“Gold star, Love- though I wouldn’t chalk it up to a success quite yet- technically speaking, theft is still in progress…”He whispered, conspiratorially, before pulling back and leaning back in the passenger's seat. “And after all I’ve been through, I am _definitely_ getting a car jack.” He proclaimed, sitting up and frowning before leaning over and looking around the edges of the seat with a furrowed brow.

“Hold on- _how_ is this car anymore yours than it is mine?”

“I have a set of keys.” He pointed out, followed by an exclamation of triumph as he successfully found the lever that leaned the seat back, cranking the lever a few times before straightening up and leaning back against it with a sigh, closing his eyes.

“Yeah, but you still stole it- just like I did.”

James let out another sigh, though this one teetered closer to a groan than a sound of contentment, and opened his eyes, turning his head to look at her, though he didn’t change position.

“Look, lass, I’ve been through too much over this bloody tin can to just let you take it for a joy ride-”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause you were getting _tons_ of use out of it parked?” Emma retorted, eyebrow raised skeptically. James shrugged, unabashed.

“A fella’s gotta sleep somewhere- need I remind you that _you_ were the one who broke in and commandeered it-”

Emma snorted.

“ _Commandeered_? What are you, a pirate? Am I gonna find a hook in the glove compartment?”

James rolled his eyes, ignoring the jab.

“You’re damn persistent- I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you.” Emma replied, pleased.

“So what say you and I pull over and discuss ownership over drinks?” He inquired, expression veering away from irritated and verging smoothly into flirtatious.

“Drinks?” Emma replied in disbelief, snorting again. “Yeah, sure- like you won’t take off the second I let go of the wheel.”

“Pirates honor.” James replied, holding up his stump humorously as one might hold up a hand for an oath. Emma couldn’t fight the grin that threatened to take over her face, a small laugh escaping through her lips.

“Alright _Hook_.” She teased, turning down a familiar street, her grin contorting into something more mischievous. “But lets skip drinks- I have something better in mind.”  


	5. The Sound That Dolphins Make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's Note: GAH! I'm sooo sorry it took so long to update!! But this chapter's been kickin' my ass!! And, more importantly, I've been a little distracted by all of this new CS Shippage showing up in the new episodes!!! So whenever I would start up this chapter, I would wind up on Tumblr instead [the-flight-risk.tumblr.com] knew it would be a challenge once the new season started up- but I'll try to update faster- afterall, have a LOOONNNGG way to go (this is only part 1! ;) ) 
> 
> Thank you, you wonderful people who have commented- or simply followed! It's those that motivate me to open up my word document every morning :) so thank you! ]

“Oh _god!_ ” Emma moaned, closing her eyes and pure, unadulterated ecstasy, head thrown back, tongue running across her upper lip. She moaned again as the second wave hit her, letting out a heavy sigh, “ _Fuck_ that’s good!”

  
  


“I assure you, that under any other circumstances, I would be highly encouraging such a...response- however, I feel under obligation to remind you , Love, that this is a family establishment.” James pointed out in wry amusement, watching as Emma sunk lower in her seat. 

“Seriously, you’ve _got_ to try these!” Emma responded, either not hearing him or choosing not to as she slid her quadruple-decker stack of banana pancakes across the table in front of him. James found himself looking down at the pancake stack in skepticism- which at that moment was smiling back up at him, despite the absence of one of its’ cherry eyes and a rather prominent chunk having been taken out of its’ pancake head. 

“I believe I lost my appetite somewhere after the third orgasm...” He replied, bemused. 

Maybe it was the hangover, maybe it was the very probably underaged girl sitting across from him making sounds he hadn’t personally been responsible for in a good decade, or maybe it was the fact that he had thirty-five cents to his name, but he was finding himself particularly on edge that morning- or was it afternoon? Bloody hell, he didn’t know- but the idea of trying his luck at a ‘dine and dash’ (as he could only assume was on Emma’s agenda as he highly doubted she had much more to her name than him) was beyond him. It was all well and good for her- she was a young, attractive, blonde teenaged girl- she could put on a few tears and probably get no more than a slap on the wrist. _He_ on the other hand (no pun intended), would not only be detained until authorities came, but likely set up for higher charges- and knowing his luck his national citizenship would be called into question as well (where the hell _those_ papers had gotten to, he hadn’t the foggiest). 

  
  


And really, when it all came down to it, it was _below_ him. 

  
  


It could be argued, with his type of lifestyle, that _nothing_ could be below him- however, he’d always liked to think that, in lieu of his less than scrupulous methods of survival, he still had a fairly strong sense of honor- if not moral compass. So while he might barter, trick, steal and even beg for food on occasion, he still felt as though he were _better_ than running away (even if that meant not knowing where his next meal came from). After all, James Darling could be accused of being many things, but he knew it to be an indisputable fact, that he had never in his life, been a coward. 

  
  


Yet at that _very moment,_ he was _seriously contemplating_ whether he would succumb to peer pressure by a _teenaged girl_. 

  
  


“Oh _come on,_ Hook! I swear, it’ll be the best pancakes you’ll ever have in your entire life- just take a bite!” Emma implored. 

The best pancakes of James’ life, he noted, had started to drool as its’ whipped cream mouth began to run; and the eye it had left seemed to have gone lazy and rolled down to its’ banana and chocolate chip nose. 

James sighed, determining that it might be best to put the poor thing out of its’ misery and grabbed his fork, digging into the layers and managing to stab three out of four, along with a banana, rationalizing that, if he were going to get caught, he’d at least get some sodding pancakes out of it. 

  
  


Emma watched, eyes shining with eager anticipation as James slid the fork into his mouth, his eyes meeting hers’ in clear skepticism. 

  
  


And then he groaned. 

  
  


A low, guttural sound emanating from deep down within his core, that immediately sent a large, smug smile across Emma’s face. 

  
  


It wasn’t that the pancakes were particularly extraordinary- but the simple fact that he couldn't _remember_ the last time he had _had_ any. Weeks? Months? _Years_? Had he _ever_ had them?

“ _See_?!” She emphasized, grabbing the corner of the plate and sliding it back in front of her, impaling the layer he had missed. “Now let me enjoy my damn pancakes in peace.” She proclaimed before shoving it in her mouth and moaning again. 

James couldn’t help but chuckle, a strange understanding crossing between them. 

“Aye, you’ve got me there, now will you pass the ketchup, darling?” 

“Whatever you say, Swan.” Emma retorted, grabbing the ketchup and propping it in front of him while simultaneously taking another bite. 

James raised an eyebrow. 

“Suppose I walked right into that one.” He consented, smirking.

Emma smirked back through pancake-stuffed cheeks, nodding. 

  
  


There was a duration of silence between them as James finally turned his attention to the burger he had ordered, removing the top to add the proffered ketchup, then replacing the bun and sliding his fingers under it to better grip it with his only available hand. If Emma found anything unusual about the process, she didn’t comment on it, and when he finally managed to glance up at her, burger now messily cradled in his palm, her eyes were fixed solely on her own food, only to glance up innocently as though she hadn’t been watching at all. 

Perhaps she hadn’t. 

Either way, it was a nice change. He had become so accustom to the feeling of eyes on him as he went through day to day activities; so used to the same questions and comments:

“Do you need help?”

“Is that hard?”

“Do you miss having two?” that he _almost_ felt uneasy without them. 

  
  


It was some strange aspect about people that made them feel as though they had every right to ask those questions- where as the same people would somehow deem it rude to ask a burn victim how they got their scars (though some did anyway). He didn’t know what they expected: 

“No I don’t need your sodding help” 

“Yes it’s bloody hard” and 

“fuck off before I chop _yours_ off and see if _you_ miss it”.

  
  


Emma Swan, though, was different. 

After the initial shock in the car, she seemed to accept it rather readily- but she didn’t hide from it either (if his new moniker was anything to go by). She didn’t ask any questions and didn’t give him a second glance when grease from the burger dripped down his arm, condiments and other juices coating his hand as he bit into it. She merely slid the napkin holder over to him and continued eating in a surprisingly companionable silence. 

  
  


“I’ve got a triple chocolate shake?” The waitress who had been tending to them inquired, appearing at their table with the outlandishly lavish beverage- because Emma clearly was having a shortage on chocolate syrup, whipped cream and cherries. 

“Right here.” Emma replied, mouth full, tapping the table in front of her. The waitress obliged, wide grin putting the cheshire cat to shame. 

“And I brought more coffee!” She announced in a tone that indicated that she had instead brought James a new hand. He managed to smile back, despite the fact that her voice reached a pitch that sent a sharp pain through his skull every time she spoke, the hangover doing him no favors. 

“Thanks, love- keep it coming.” 

She nodded, eyes fixating on him a little longer than was perhaps deemed necessary, leaning over, across him to fill up his cup halfway, before murmuring:

“I left room for cream.” winking, before she pulled away. 

“So you have.” James agreed, nodding absently at his half empty cup. 

“ _And_ I’ll be your cashier whenever you two are ready.” She added with another wink towards James, before turning and leaving. 

James sighed, sinking down slightly lower and glancing over his shoulder before reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out an anonymous flask and removing the lid with his teeth. 

Emma watched, an eyebrow raised as she witnessed him dump a copious amount into his half-full coffee cup, then recapped and pocketed the flask. 

“So... _how_ is more alcohol gonna help that hangover you’ve been sporting?”

“Who says I’m hungover?”

“ _Please_ , that waitress was loud, but you were acting like she was part _dolphin_.”

James made a sound of acknowledgement as he drank his (aptly Irish) coffee, wincing very slightly. 

“Seriously, I doubt that helps.” 

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.” 

“Yeah, tell that to your liver.” Emma muttered, taking a sip from her milkshake. 

“Tell you what, lass: you leave me to worry about my liver, and I’ll leave you to worry about an early onset of diabetes.” He proclaimed while downing his cup, eyes meeting her’s challengingly the entire time. Emma, in response, turned her attention to her milkshake, eyes continuing to meet his as she sucked it down. 

  
  


Neither admitted to the burnt tongue and brain freeze their pride had given them afterward and instead their eyes both simultaneously rested on the receipt. 

  
  


“And what, darling, are you planning to do with _that_?” James inquired, motioning to the innocuous looking piece of paper. 

  
  


Emma glared at it as she finished off her milkshake, noisily, fighting the automatic urge to touch her temple and instead, stated, casually: 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”

“And _where_ , pray tell, have you ascertained this miraculous fortune?” 

Emma smirked. 

“Who said anything about paying?” 

James sighed, his worst suspicions confirmed. 

“And what shall our exit strategy be? Shall I boost you up, out of the bathroom window? Or do you think you could fend off Prozac while I make a run for it?”

Emma rolled her eyes, before swiping up the check, not even bothering to look at it. 

“Just trust me on this, okay? I know what I’m doing.” 

“Right, trust the car thief- that sound promising.”

“Shh!” Emma hissed, before scooting out of her booth, James relenting and following her lead. 

  
  


James abruptly stiffened as Emma moved to his side, arm looping in his as they approached the cash register, making eye contact with the waitress from before, who beamed at them, as though identifying long lost friends, and hurried over. 

“Don’t worry, Sweetie, I’ve got this one- you go start the car.” Emma suddenly instructed, standing on tiptoe to kiss James on the cheek, before releasing him. James schooled his features, eyebrow raising inquiringly at her, but grinning all the same. 

“If you insist.” He replied, turning and leaving the diner, admittedly regretful that he wouldn't get to see precisely what it is she planned to do. 

  
  


He stepped outside the restaurant and made his way around the corner to the parking lot, surprised to note how late it was already, the cloudy sky transitioning from its’ cerulean blue to a burnt orange… He surveyed it with curiosity for a moment, allowing his feet to automatically take him where he needed to be, meanwhile pondering this new phenomenon. Surely, it had only been an hour or so since he had found her in his car? Two at most?

It certainly didn’t _feel_ as though they had spent any more time than that- how long did it take to eat a burger and pancakes?

  
  


He reached the car, pulling out the keys he had swiped back from the girl when she had pulled into the joint, and opened the driver’s side- there was no way he would be letting _her_ behind the wheel again- and slid into the seat; sighing as he closed the door. 

  
  


It wasn’t until he found himself flipping through radio stations, patiently waiting for Emma to return, that the thought struck him:

_What am I doing?_

_Why_ was he just _sitting_ _there_ , waiting for a teenaged girl who had, not a few hours ago, _stole_ his car? The realization struck him like a battering ram. He could _leave_. He had no attachment to this girl; he hadn’t promised her anything or to even _take_ her anywhere. He could just _drive off_ and leave her to her schemes- the car was already on- it would take seconds at most- his hand reached for the stick-

  
  


_The image of her wordlessly sliding the napkin holder towards him crossed his mind…_

  
  


He hesitated. 

Later in life, _much_ later, Killian Jones would reflect upon that moment as the wisest decision he had ever made. 

  
  


That mere second of hesitation was all it took, his eyes going to the rear view window, where he could clearly see a short blonde figure casually walking towards the car, her pace calm, but brisk. So instead of driving off, 

James Darling leaned over and unlocked the door. 

  
  


Emma grinned as she met his eyes through the window, opening the door and sliding into the passanger’s seat, not looking at him as she buckled her seatbelt. 

“Drive.” She demanded simply. James frowned. 

“I thought you were going to pay for dinner?”

“I _am_.” Emma replied, smirking as she finally glanced over at him. “I forgot my purse in the car, now _drive_!”

  
  


James chuckled, shifting into reverse, half expecting their waitress to burst out of the restaurant and chase after them. 

  
  


She didn’t, and he pulled out of the parking lot, still laughing as he pulled onto the road. 

He knew, then and there, why he hadn’t left- why he _couldn’t_ leave- loathe as he was at that moment to admit it to himself. And he wouldn’t realize it until years later, when he was able to pinpoint _that_ _moment_ exactly, as the minute that Emma Swan had started to burrow a hole into Killian Jones’ cold, blackened heart. 

  
  
  


  
  



	6. The Lost Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to break this up into three parts because it was such a huge chapter, still working on the third part but it should be up shortly, sorry if it's a little rough around the edges, will be going back to edit but wanted to get it out asap-tfl

The next time James came to consciousness, he regurgitated what felt like half of the ocean onto a hard, wet surface. He was sopping from head to toe, trembling from shock, and gasping for the sweet taste of air that he had been quite sure he’d never get the pleasure of experiencing again.

Water spewed out of his mouth in a seemingly endless stream; each time he felt as though he were done, more would come, until he could no longer remember the taste of anything but salt. His head was in a complete fog, his eyes making out only a blur as he furiously blinked his wet lashes. He felt weak, so incredibly weak- and heavy- curled up on his side, unable to find the strength to so much as properly look around at his surroundings.

  


It wasn’t until he had stopped coughing that he became aware of the voices. A group of deep, male voices, surrounding him on all sides, conferring amongst themselves as they observed what James assumed must be an unusual sight, if their tones were anything to go by.

He struggled to turn onto his stomach, and from there, managed to get on his hands and knees, clearing out the last of the sea water; all of which he came to realize had soaked into hard, wooden floorboards beneath him. He didn’t look up, partly due to still being off balance from the dramatic shift in scenery, but admittedly more so from the trepidation of what sight he might encounter when he did.

  


His concerns were in no way diminished when the surrounding voices abruptly fell silent; in its’ place, unearthing the sound of a single set of heavy, prominent footsteps, approaching him at a leisurely pace. It was only a short while before the footsteps stopped short before him, a pair of black boots with gold buckles mere inches away from his faced down, open palms.

  


“You’re a lucky lad.” A deep baritone voice growled from above him, instantly sending an uncontrollable shiver down his spine. “It’s not every man who can say they swam with mermaids and lived t’ tell the tale- an’ by the looks of it, it was a close one fer you. ‘F I didn’t know better, I’d say it looked a bit like they _rescued_ you…” The gravely voice chuckled- a sinister sound that made James no less weary of its’ source. “D’you have any idea why that may be, Boy?”

  


James found himself incapable of locating his voice- whether a result from the considerable amount of seawater he had deemed appropriate to drink, or from sheer fear of the inquirer, he couldn’t at the moment say.

“Eyes to me, Lad!” The voice commanded, sharply.

Fear, definitely fear.

James swallowed, thickly- his presently poor excuse for saliva slowly making its’ way down his parched throat, before he managed the courage to look upward- squinting and blinking when his eyes were instantly greeted by the angry afternoon sun. A moment later a large silhouette saw fit to step in front of it, obstructing the sun from view and casting a large shadow over James’ hunched form. He blinked a few more times, seeing stars.

“Out with it Boy! Or did the mermaids keep your tongue as a souvenir!?” The man barked, again- his voice a cracking whip. James cleared his throat, trying once more to make sound come out.

“N-no.”

“Ah!” The man proclaimed, “The Lad speaks! Again, the mermaids,out with it lad- lest you’d prefer to sing?” He threatened, hand idly palming the pommel of the sheathed sword strapped to his side.

Finally, James’ vision had adjusted enough to get a clear view of The man- only to realize very quickly that he was no man at all- no common one at least. And while James had very little understanding of social classes among men, he had a fairly basic understanding of social classes when it came to pirates- and he could identify a Pirate Captain when he saw one- sure enough.

  


The Captain in question, while not dressed in the traditional, brighter garb of the storybooks shown to him by The Darlings, he was by no means dressed like common class. While the other pirates were dressed in utilitarian attire- a compilation of clothing that could have easily been looted from raids, giving a cobbled-together patch-work appearance (heavy-duty grieves, many cut-off at the knees and tunics lacking their sleeves for more mobility and to fight the tropical climate; others with soldier attire likely stolen from many-a-ship, with an assortment of miscellaneous, functional hats to keep sun out of their eyes) The Captain was dressed much finer.

  


While not radiating wealth, there were subtleties in his clothing- the gold buckles on his boots matched the gold buckles on his clearly tailored coat- a long, brown coat, crafted from finer hide than James had ever seen; a dark maroon tunic and black vest could be seen underneath it, and greaves made from the same fine material as his cloak. The hand on his sword was covered with numerous large, organte rings- a large stone set in each one; and another large ruby on his golden belt buckle. What was most prominent, however, was his impressive beard- spanning down his chest in numerous intricate braids- inlaid with the occasional golden bead. A large, yet simple hat, succeeded in sweeping the visible half of his face into heavy shadow- so that all James could really make out of the man was his dark, soulless, beetle-black eyes; which at that moment, were staring fixedly and expectantly at James.

  


“Y-yes, Captain.” James replied, hoping that his guess wasn’t off track- however the man gave nothing away in his expression to confirm or deny the statement, “I- uh- I have no idea why the mermaids um- s-saved me- I uh...I suppose, we’ve always been on...friendly terms?” He finished, uncertainly, hesitantly meeting The Captain’s gaze.

There was a beat, where The Captain simply stared at James, seeming to size up his response, his mouth a firm line as his eyes continued to bore into him.

And then, without warning, he did the last thing James would have ever expected:

  


He laughed.

  


A loud, bark of a laugh- much like his commands- however, this one was loud and hearty; his crew quickly joining in.

“D’ya hear that gentlemen!?” The Captain boomed, looking around at the others, “It appears we’ve caught ourselves a _friend_ of the _mermaids_!!” There was more laughter from the man, a wide grin spreading across his face, as though it was the funniest thing he had heard in centuries- before he sobered up, his crew sobering with him, and bent to a squat, eyes now level with James’, a curious frown forming on his face. “An’ why, pray tell, do you think the mermaids saw fit to bring you aboard _this_ vessel? Why they saved you is clear enough- you nearly expelled the entire ocean onto my deck not a moment ago- but it’s the location I’m more curious about.”

  


Apparently once more James’ features seemed to convey confusion, as The Captain continued.

“We’re three days North of land- an’ I highly doubt your mermaid friends would so easily risk your hide ‘f there was land nearby- which leads me to wonder, what the bloody hell you were doin’ way out here?” He said this all in a calm, casual tone- however James could still distinctly detect the threat laced between his words- though he couldn’t quite gage the specific implication. One thing was very certain however- he doubted The Captain would take to lying well.

  


“I was visiting a friend.”

The Captain’s frown increased, an eyebrow raising in skepticism, before it was replaced by a smirk.

“Another one of yer mermaids?”

“She’s not a mermaid!” James found himself retorting without much thought- instantly regretting it at The Captain’s expression.

“Ahh, so it’s a lass now, is it?”

James didn’t respond, instead, looking away. A set of course fingers and a thumb immediately gripped his chin, repositioning his head to once more look at The Captain.

“An’ this lass of yours- where does she live?” He asked, releasing James’ chin.

“Far away from here.” James once again evaded.

“I gathered that.” The Captain replied in wry amusement. “An’ how did you plan t’ get there? Swim?”

“I flew.” James proclaimed, proudly.

There was another wave of laughter from the crew, accompanied by jeers and taunts and even a chuckle from The Captain before he raised a hand to silence them.

“I take it it didn’t go so well.”

James looked away, abashed.

“I fell.”

“Did you now?” The Captain replied, suddenly observing James with far more interest than he had already been displaying.

“If you could please just take me back-”

“To where? Neverland? Or to your lass in Far Away?” The Captain mocked, standing once more. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that lad.”

“Why not?!” James replied, growing bolder in his desperation. Fortunately, The Captain seemed to find his behavior entertaining, at the moment.

“Because, lad, I may be a simple Pirate Captain- but I’m not fool enough to trifle with a mermaid- ‘f they saw fit t’ hand deliver you to us, then I won’t be returnin’ ya anytime soon- not if it means a reprieve from them- even temporarily.”  
“But I _have_ to go back!” James protested, finding his feet and leaping up- only to wobble slightly before straightening. He realized promptly that this might not have quite the impact he had been hoping for as, while he towered over the other boys on the island with ease, he was still a good foot or so shorter than The Captain.  
“Do you?” He asked, turning once more to face him, hands behind his back.

“I- of course-”

“Think on it harder lad.” The Captain interrupted, “What do you really have to go back to?”

“My friends.” He replied automatically, though he wondered how much truth there was to that. Since his travels to The Star, he had been seeing the others less and less. And when he did, he found the games he had once lead, no longer held his interest. Once more The Captain seemed to see right through him, because he continued, “How old are you, Lad? Bit too old to be calling yourself a Lost Boy anymore- not gettin’ on like you used to? Bet they don’t even _know_ about your lass from Far Away, do they? Wouldn’t understand- that feelin’ y’ get in your gut when you look at her?”

“What would you know about it?” James spat back, reproachfully. The Captain grinned.

“Why, what any _man_ would know- ‘cos those aren’t feelins of a _boy_ , that I promise you.” James continued to eye him suspiciously as he began to circle him, “An’ I bet you can lick ‘em all in a fight now- can’t you? Take ‘em on in groups ‘cos one-to-one jus’ don’t cut it anymore.” James shifted uneasily as he watched The Captain hold out a hand in the direction of the crew, one of which in response, tossed their sheathed sword in his direction, which he caught with ease, before turning back to James. “What if I told you that you could have some _real_ action- a _real_ challenge- an’ wield a _real_ sword?” He held the sword up by its’ sheath for emphasis, “Hmm? Far better than those rocks those Boys carve up. _And_ -” He added as he began to circle around again, pausing behind James to lean conspiratorially over his shoulder. “What if I told you I knew a way to get back to your lass, _without flight_?- Ahh, see? _That_ got your interest.” The Captain chuckled at James’ clearly peaked interest at those words, his eyes following The Captain as he made his way back to the front, and to his surprise, offered up the sword. “So what say you, lad? Do you want to be a Lost Boy? Or would you rather be a _Man_?”

  


James stared down at the proffered sword- a simple thing in actuality, but to James, who had only ever managed ownership over a rusted blade that happened to wash up on Neverland’s shores, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; and he found his hands reaching out for it on their own accord and taking hold of it.

He was vaguely aware of the enthusiastic applause and cheers from the surrounding crew- shouting out words of encouragement as James continued to stare at the blade, holding the battered sheath as though it were made of the finest silks, and pulling out the blade just enough to see the glistening sheen, before sliding it back in with as much care as one would show to glass.

“Good form!” The Captain’s voice once more boomed in appraisal, as he rather forcefully clapped James on the back. “You have a name, Lad?”

James managed to look up, somehow finding himself smiling at this rather unexpected welcome, and responding with some hesitancy:

“Uh- James- James Darling.” spitting out the first and only last name that came to mind. There was another loud bark of laughter from The Captain, who shook his head.

“Nah- won’t do t’ have me sweet talkin’ a member of my crew- and besides- you’re a man now- you need a man’s name to go with it- Barniss!”

“Cap’n!” One of the crew members replied.

“What was the name of our last cook? The one I gifted our lovely new friends when he tried to pass of that chum as stew!”

“That’d be Jones Cap’n- Killian Jones.”

“Killian Jones! Good name! Knew I hired him for a reason!” The Captain turned back to James, looking him up and down once more. “So what say you lad? How would you like to be Killian Jones? I doubt _he’ll_ be needin’ much use out of the title.”

“I- um-” James stammered, suddenly finding himself overwhelmed and incapable of doing anything but nodding in uneasy agreement.

“Good lad!” The Captian once more appraised, seeming pleased with his own decision. “CARTER!!”

“Cap’n!”

“Fetch our young Jones somthin’ more suiting to wear.”

“Right away Cap’n.”

“An’ th’ rest of you- you’ve had your break, back t’ work!” He ordered, then turned his attention back to James with a large grin and another clap on the back.

“Welcome aboard The Jolly Roger, Killian Jones!”


End file.
